


Masterpiece.

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Castiel, Fluff, Inspired by Photography, M/M, Sexual Content, sort of domestic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 11:16:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1224256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel paints, he doesn't speak. </p>
<p>Inspired by <a href="http://forrestt.tumblr.com/post/17323716609/jake">this</a> picture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masterpiece.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SkippyMcVy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkippyMcVy/gifts).



> So after I saw [this](http://forrestt.tumblr.com/post/17323716609/jake) picture for the first time, I immediately got an idea for this story. And then I promptly kept putting it off until it was eating my brain and well, here we are. xo.

When Castiel paints, he doesn't speak. It doesn't matter if the phone rings or someone buzzes up to their apartment or if Dean is murmuring _I love you_ directly into his ear. So long as Castiel has a paintbrush between his fingers or clamped between his teeth, the most noise he makes is a hum of acknowledgment before he goes back to staring at his canvas with pure concentration, eyes flicking across the surface like he can already see the lines he has yet to paint. It's a beautiful sight and usually, Dean is more than happy to wile away entire afternoons lying on the futon that doubles as their bed, watching his boyfriend conjure up the most gorgeous images from the depths of his talented mind. 

Sometimes though, he does get bored, like the day when a massive rainstorm decides to hit the city. Dean's classes are canceled and their power has been out since eight AM and he can only read Vonnegut for so long before his attention starts to wander. Castiel has been painting since before the sun came up and it doesn't look like he's going to stop anytime soon. His bare chest and white boxers are covered in drips of purple and silver and black and once again, he's forgotten to put a drop cloth down underneath his feet. Thankfully, Dean had accepted months ago that they weren't going to get their damage deposit back so rather than saying anything, he closes his dogeared copy of _Cat's Cradle_ and more fully takes in the sight before him. Over the course of the day, Castiel has tugged his hair into unruly spikes and it so closely resembles his sex hair that Dean can't help but smirk. It's hard to tell what he's painting; even though he's been working at it for most of the day, it looks like nothing more than splashes of color, like it was inspired by Jackson Pollock. 

Or, at least Dean _thinks_ it's Pollock. He's picked up quite a bit in the two years that he's been dating Cas but nonetheless, the names of artists kind of mix together most of the time. Besides, it doesn't really matter because truthfully, he cares more about Castiel's paintings than those by anyone else. 

It's starting to get dark outside and rain is still pelting their window with alarming force and Cas still shows no signs of stopping. It's too dark for Dean to comfortably keep reading so he slides off the futon and crosses the main room of their tiny apartment until he's standing behind Castiel, squinting to see if he can make out a subject of the painting. 

“What is it gonna be?” he asks, even though he knows he won't get an answer and on cue, Cas simply hums. Dean takes another step forward and hooks his chin over Castiel's shoulder, splaying his palms on Cas' hips. He's holding his palette in his right hand and for something to do, Dean moves one of his hands and dabs his finger into one of the pools of paint. When he pulls it away, there's a perfect dome of silvery liquid on his fingertip and after admiring it for a moment, he swipes it along the sharp ridge of Castiel's hipbone. 

He doesn't speak, but he inhales sharply, his brush trembling in his hand. It's an interesting reaction so Dean repeats the action on Cas' other hip and Dean can see a muscle in his jaw twitch. 

“Surprised that you're not yellin' at me about wasting paint,” Dean says, dipping his fingers into the black paint on the palette and blindly drawing a heart on the bottom of Cas' ribcage. He draws the same thing in silver over Castiel's real heart and the brush drops out of his hand, clattering to the floor. Thankfully, the palette doesn't suffer the same fate and Dean adds a slash of lavender to Cas' sternum, the color slightly diluted from mixing with the others. 

“ _Dean._ ” Castiel's voice is hardly more than a rasp and his free hand reaches back to wind itself in Dean's hair. The palette is trembling in his hand and it tilts at an alarming angle when Dean nips at where Cas' neck meets his shoulder, worrying the skin between his teeth. Dean outlines Castiel's clavicle with a thick streak of black and when he presses his still wet finger against Castiel's nipple, the palette drops to the ground and sprays paint across their bare feet. Castiel whips around so quickly that it catches Dean off guard and before he can say anything, he's lying on his back with Cas straddling his hips. Cas kisses him fiercely, cradling Dean's jaw in his palm, licking into his mouth and clawing at his shirt like he's offended by its mere presence. Dean is pretty sure that it's already got paint on it but he makes sure to whip it across the room before he pulls Cas back down into his lap. 

Dean may have been the one who initiated but it quickly becomes clear that Cas is in charge and, seeing as Dean _did_ interrupt his process, he can't complain too much. Once Cas has kissed him until he's seeing stars and his cock is straining against the constriction of his jeans, he pulls away and with a firm press of his palm to Dean's chest, indicates that he isn't to move. He crosses the room and starts rummaging through the little table beside their futon and although Dean doesn't move from the floor, he does get rid of his pants and boxers. Cas comes back with a bottle of lube in his hands, takes one look at Dean's fingers (which are almost entirely covered in drying paint) and slicks up his own instead. All Dean can do is watch and run his hands down Cas' chest, smearing the colorful lines that cover his chest. When Cas sinks down onto his cock, he curses and flails his hand out and it lands smack-dab on the discarded palette, fingers sliding over the slick surface. 

Seconds later, that same hand latches onto to Castiel's shoulder, leaving a messy black and silver handprint behind. As Cas rolls his hips down slowly, his bottom lip drawn between his teeth, the power flickers back on and Dean gets his first good look at what he's done to Cas. 

He's gorgeous, even more gorgeous than usual, torso covered in silver lines and purple whorls and messy attempts at drawings. There's a pink hickie blooming on his shoulder and now that the lights are on, Dean can see the flecks of paint strewn through his black hair and dotted along his forearms. Dean has never been able to paint, never had any interest in it, but he still thinks that Cas, with his vibrant blue eyes and the blissed-out expression on his face on his gorgeous face, is nothing less than a fucking masterpiece.


End file.
